


How To Be

by Celebratory Penguin (cpenguing)



Category: The Beatles
Genre: Friendship, Gen, Strong Language, Talking about death and surviving death, This is at a Marvin the Paranoid Android level of depression
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-07-17
Updated: 2017-07-17
Packaged: 2018-12-03 04:40:11
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,726
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11524743
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/cpenguing/pseuds/Celebratory%20Penguin
Summary: Paul is summoned as George nears the end of his days.





	How To Be

**Author's Note:**

> While Paul did visit shortly before George's death, the events of this story didn't happen and are not meant to be considered historically accurate. I repeat: THIS DIDN'T HAPPEN.

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HOW TO BE  
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November, 2001

 

Paul peers half-heartedly out the window as the plane approaches New York City. He shudders at the raw scars crisscrossing lower Manhattan. Just like post-war Liverpool, where he grew up and met John, who died in New York City.

Where he met George, who was dying in New York City.

He's beginning to wonder if New York is cursed, or the city is cursing his loved ones, or some combination of the two. 

At least they wouldn't be over Midtown, over the fucking Dakota. "Rosemary's Baby" had been on the telly recently and the mere sight of the building had been enough to make him nauseous and angry.

He shakes his head, weary from the long flight and all the emotions that had been percolating since he'd gotten Olivia's phone call.

_"He's asking for you. Please, come as soon as you can."_

Fuck cancer, anyway.

Sometimes, when he closes his eyes, he can still see Linda taking her last breath, can see the moment when her loving soul left her depleted body. Too soon. Too soon. And now it's going to be George.

George, stunning him by turning up at Linda's memorial despite the frosty cordiality their relationship had known since the Beatle breakup.

Once that first memory flies out of the jar, a flood of others spin quickly, like a filmstrip being run backwards.

George, playing ukulele in his garden during the "Anthology" filming while Paul plunked along - secretly envious that George could even make THIS instrument sound so much better than he could himself - while Ringo patted time on his jeans.

George, asking him and Linda and Ringo to "join in" on a little song he'd put together for John.

George, slagging Paul off on TV. George, playing a brutal, brilliant solo on "How Do You Sleep?" 

George, bleary-eyed and sad, trying to speak too softly for the camera to pick up that he would play whatever Paul wanted, or not play at all if Paul didn't want him to.

George, sitting with his sitar across his lap, fingers flying.

George, flustered and blushing as he asked Paul to be his best man.

George.

Ducking jelly babies on stage.  
Sulking in the EMI studio, hiding his black eye from the photographer.  
Gazing helplessly at Paul and John as the German police took him away.  
Playing "Raunchy" atop a double-decker bus.

Paul hears a crashing E-Major chord...no, it is just the pilot on the PA announcing that they had landed, and to be careful opening the overhead bins as objects may have shifted during flight.

Paul blinks rapidly, trying to clear his vision from the treacherous wetness welling up in his eyes.

Lives may have shifted during flight.

He has prepared himself for dealing with the Public and having to put on a brave face _my brave face_ but is relieved that a discreet, liveried driver _drive my car_ meets him at the gate and efficiently takes his bags for him _take it away_. Someone has trained this guy well, and they pass the long drive to Staten Island in silence. 

Paul's breathing quickens when he considers that he might be too late, that George might already be gone. He lets out a little moan, and then checks that the driver hasn't responded - he hasn't - and settles down again in his seat.

Little, mundane tasks, that's what he needs. Breath mint, comb, swig of water. He can do this, he can absolutely face Olivia and have the same fucking banal fucking conversations people held with him when Linda was dying, and FUCK IT here are the tears again and he'd be damned if he will do that in front of Olivia.

He opens the water bottle and downs most of it without drawing breath. He forces himself to look in the rear-view mirror.

Bad, bad, bad, bad. He tries on a smile but dismisses it as making him look like a constipated shark. Instead, he settles for putting his hair in something like order. The last wispy strands get under control just in time for the car to pull up to a side entrance. Mindful of his manners even when he's falling to pieces, because that's what he DOES, Paul makes himself thank the driver, screwing up his face at how tight his voice sounds, and goes in search of the office where Olivia is waiting to meet with him before taking him to say goodbye to George.

Fucking cancer, fucking SHITBALL cancer.

Olivia is waiting in the doorway. She looks small and exhausted, and when Paul takes her in his arms he is shocked at how frail she seems. But she is Olivia, the woman who had cracked her husband's would-be murderer over the head with a lamp, and she is a thousand times stronger than Paul could ever be.

"You look tired," Olivia says when she pulls back, appraising him with her warm eyes. "I appreciate you coming so quickly, I know how busy--"

Paul cuts her off by putting his finger over his own lips and then hers. "Don't even think about thanking me. I'd have come even if you'd told me not to."

She brushes her hair back from her forehead and nods toward a small table with four chairs. "Let's sit down for a bit first. Can I get you any coffee from the cafeteria, something to eat?"

Always, always the kindest lady Paul knew besides his own Linda _the lovely linda_. Paul shakes his head. He doesn't want anything in his stomach because he strongly suspects he'd be re-visiting it. He pulls a chair out for Olivia, and then sits next to her rather than across from her. 

Her smile is sad, grateful. She takes his hand and holds it in hers, her wedding ring glinting in the fluorescent office light. "It's down to days, now," she says.

"Fuck," Paul says aloud without meaning to. "Sorry," he amends, squeezing Olivia's hand gently. 

"Please, I lived with an ex-Beatle for decades and raised his son, you think I'm going to start clutching my pearls now?" They share a giggle for just a moment, a ray of sunshine penetrating storm clouds. "We aren't going back to England. George doesn't want a...shrine, anywhere. There's a detective looking for a place, something private where he can just go in peace."

Paul tries to clear his throat. He doesn't trust his voice, and with good reason because it comes out as a pained scraping sound. "I know this sounds crazy, but is there anything I can do?"

Now Olivia has taken his hand in both of hers, the silent gesture frightening Paul more than any tears or sobs could have done. "I need to ask you something. If it's too difficult, then just...well, answer me anyway. Please?"

"Of course, of course," Paul hears himself saying in a vacuum of misery. "Anything. I mean it."

Olivia squares her shoulders. "Well. George has been planning his d...death, and what he wants afterwards, but I need help with what happens after that. I need help, Paul, I don't know how to be a widow, much less a Beatle widow." She blinks back tears, looks at their joined hands, then gazes at him again. "But you do."

It's a sucker-punch. Paul takes in a lungful of air through his nose and lets it out through his mouth. He has to look away from her for a moment and he tries to focus on the details of this office. Big desk, lots of books, blinds on the window. Whose office is it, he wonders idly, but it's not enough of a distraction. 

When he dares to look back at Olivia, she has her head tilted to one side. Waiting. Hoping he will say something to ease her pain, to get her on track for the years and years and years of wishing _if you were here today_.

"I'm not a wise person," Paul says carefully. "I'm a pretty rubbish role model."

"Well, it's either you or Yoko," Olivia declares, wrinkling her nose. 

Ah.

"Well," Paul says after he takes a steadying breath, "I'm not gonna lie to you, Liv. When...at the end...I thought the moment Linda died would be the worst one of my life, but it turns out that it was just the beginning of a long _and winding road_ stretch of absolutely fucking awful."

Olivia nods.

"The kids kept me grounded, just like Dhani will do with you. Something kicks in and you have to keep putting one foot in front of the other, have to get up and brush your teeth like it's any old day _just another day_ because if you fall apart, they fall apart." He remembers the pain of getting up the morning after Linda died, how howlingly dark the world seemed, how much he just wanted to stuff it all and jump off a building, but he's not going to say that to her. "I did some drinking. Don't recommend it."

She nods again, her teeth digging into her lower lip.

"Then there are the firsts - the first birthday when you realize that she'll never get older, the first anniversary spent alone. And other things, like giving away her clothes. Like washing the sheets that still smelled like her..." That finishes him, and he averts his gaze so Olivia won't see the tears leaving hot, oily tracks on his face.

Paul hears the squeak of the chair leg across the floor just before Olivia's arms wrap around him. She strokes his hair so gently that he's hardly aware of her light touch. "I'm so sorry, Paul," she murmurs at his temple. 

He lets himself go on for a few moments while she rocks back and forth. Then he remembers who's supposed to be comforting whom and he gently pulls away from her, drying his eyes with the heels of his hands. "No, no, 's okay," he rasps. "I just wasn't prepared for the question, that's all. Sit back down, I'm sorry, I'm okay now."

He isn't, and he knows that she knows he isn't, but he's a BLOKE and they don't do this. Olivia takes her seat again but she's watching him for any more signs of being utterly fucking useless. No, that isn't right. Olivia's nothing if not fair; she won't judge him based on the last three minutes.

Hopefully, not on the last thirty years, either, he reflects, and that reminds him of something.

"I said, after John," and he has to stop and take a deep, shuddering breath, "after John died, that I'd never get into a situation again where someone died with...with important things unsaid." Olivia gives him a sad, sweet smile. "I hope George and I are...okay, now."

"You were the second person he asked to see," she says with a rueful grin when Paul raises an eyebrow at his ordinal number. "Ringo was the first. George wanted to clear the air about Maureen, to ask Ringo's forgiveness for that, for the lawsuit, and some other stuff."

"You knew?" Paul asks. It's not like George to have-an-affair-with-his-best-mate's-wife and tell. He remembers hearing about it from Pattie, how her enormous blue eyes were rimmed with scarlet from all the tears. Oh, Christ, he's probably going to have to be the one to tell Pattie, and he's not sure how he's going to do that. "You knew about Maureen?"

Olivia rolls her eyes at him. "Paul, it's all over the place. I could hardly miss it."

Paul, who avoids "places" whenever possible, wonders what other secrets _you afraid or is it true?_ are out there. He has fond memories of Maureen _little willow_ , who died a few years before Linda. Maureen was the first "Beatle wife" to go. Ringo and her husband were both at her deathbed.

He wonders if anyone will be left when it's his turn.

That line of thinking won't help George. Paul forces himself into the present. "You know what the weirdest part was?" he asks Olivia even though there's no way she can know the answer. "It was the way the word 'widower' tasted. Seriously, every time I called myself that I could feel a sour, bitter taste in my mouth."

Olivia's mouth forms the word "widow" but no sound comes out. She puts her hands over her face and lets out a short, sharp cry. Her fist goes over her lips, as if to push the sound back in.

Paul knows, knows somewhere at the atomic level in his bones, exactly what Olivia is feeling. He gets up, knees creaking a little _when I'm sixty-four_ , and kneels in front of her. "Liv," he murmurs, "it's not going to be okay, not for a long time, but I promise you that you'll get through it. And I'll help you, I'll do whatever I can." He waits, one hand resting lighty on Olivia's knee while she pulls herself together.

"I'm sorry," she gasps, reaching into her purse for a tissue. "I keep thinking I'm cried out, then all of a sudden it just grabs me all over again."

Paul nods. He doesn't want to tell her that he still cries. Not just for Linda, but for his parents, and John _dear friend_. Always John, snatched just as his life was getting back on track. Forget fucking cancer. Fuck guns, and fuck that shithead whose name is a waste of oxygen.

The devil's best friend, as George had called him.

At least the anger helps Paul keep the tears at bay. He rises, offers his hand to Olivia, and gently guides her to her feet. "I'm ready," he says softly.

She gives him a smile that almost, almost makes it to her eyes. She leans gratefully against him as she leads him down the corridor to where two guards stand outside a room with a handwritten sign: George Arias.

Dhani is also there, slouching against a wall, eyes wide open and staring sightlessly at the ceiling. He is wearing a white t-shirt and tight jeans, and he looks so much like George that Paul is reasonably certain that his heart is going to shatter at the sight of him. 

"Here's Paul," Olivia whispers to get Dhani's attention. Dhani leans over to kiss his mother's cheek, then flings his arms around Paul. Paul pats his back - just as thin as his dad's, with the same sharp shoulder blades - and presses his cheek against Dhani's thick, wind-blown hair _of a thousand laces_.

"I'm so sorry," Paul murmurs. "I've loved your dad since we were kids together."

"He's told me," Dhani replies. He's a bit hoarse and sounds far older than his years. "He was so happy when Mum told him you were on your way."

Paul can't remember the last time George was happy to see him.

"Anyhow, he's awake now. You should go on in."

Paul waits for Olivia's assent before stepping past the guards - who stand a little straighter at the sight of a Beatle - and into the stark white hospital room.

George is lying on the bed. His body has the paper-thin skin and sunken musculature he remembers from Linda, and his mother. Only the eyes are the same, large and dark, with a spark of humor still evident despite the drugs being pumped into his frail frame.

Paul musters up a smile when George beckons him closer. He pulls up a chair to the bedside but George shakes his head and pats the mattress at his side until Paul sits there instead.

He breathes deeply as George takes hold of his right hand. His left hand goes briefly to George's sharp cheekbone, then comes to rest in the shorn, gray remnant of his once-luxurious hair.

Fuck cancer. Fuck it to the ends of the fucking, fucking earth.

In memory of his parents, of Maureen, of Linda, and of John-always-John, Paul leans over and listens as George offers words of apology, of reconciliation, of love.

He will listen as long as George wants to talk, and will talk as long as George wants to listen. He will be there for Olivia and Dhani, will promise to look after them, and after Ringo as well. 

Because if there's one thing Paul knows how to be, it's a survivor.

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END  
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**Author's Note:**

> I haven't written anything for years, but a sudden Beatles resurgence concurred with some depressing RL stuff, and this is what came out.


End file.
